


the world's most beautiful blue

by bibliomaniac



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Birthday Fluff, Birthday Sex, Blow Jobs, Fluff and Smut, Hand & Finger Kink, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oral Fixation, Wire Play, i think that should be everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-07 23:45:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15918660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliomaniac/pseuds/bibliomaniac
Summary: Hank's birthday is really fucking different this year from how it was last year. For one thing, there is a one hundred percent increase of androids in his life. And, well, there's other stuff too, but they all sort of stem from that one.(aka birthday sex for the birthday boy and a lil bit of schmoop)





	the world's most beautiful blue

So here’s the difference between Hank’s birthday this year and his birthday last year:

Last year, he woke up past noon with the remnants of a nasty hangover. He stumbled out of bed, hit his head on the wall, spent five minutes cursing walls and then himself, then went to the kitchen to scare up some ibuprofen and some reheated Chinese. When he checked his email, he had six emails wishing him happy birthday. All of them were from savings plans or product subscriptions he had forgotten he had. He started drinking again. When he went into work, next, Fowler said, “It was your birthday, right? You look older.” Hank did not laugh.

This year, Hank is woken up at precisely 9:30 AM, which he knows because Connor wakes him up with his customary, “It’s 9:30 AM on Tuesday, September 6th, 2039. You have been asleep for 9 hours, 1 minute, and 56 seconds. Also, it is your birthday!”

He sounds so goddamn pleased about the last part. Hank knows he is, too: Connor has been unsubtly making birthday plans for weeks. He throws himself into everything with enthusiasm, after all.

“S’too early,” Hank grumbles, and keeps his eyes closed. He knows, obviously, that Connor is not going to relent. Connor is going to insist on him going into the station, especially because he’s also been incredibly unsubtle about having planned something there.

“Hank,” Connor says on a hint of a pout that Hank is way too fucking weak to, “I let you sleep in an extra hour.”

“God,” Hank says. There’s irritation in his voice, but they both know he doesn’t really mean it. “Okay, _fine_.” And he opens his eyes.

And he sees Connor, carrying a tray of chocolate chip pancakes with syrup and whipped cream and strawberries, and there’s coffee and orange juice and—okay that’s really fucking nice and all but more to the point Connor himself is wearing fucking— _lingerie._  

“Uh,” Hank says, garbled with sleep and what-the-fuck and the beginnings of arousal that really don’t mix well with all the rest of this. “Huh?”

Connor is beaming. “I made you breakfast in bed! It’s pancakes. Because they are small cakes, you see? And it’s your birthday.” 

“Uh-huh.” The lingerie is a delicate blue, the same color as Connor’s LED when he’s content. Hank loves that color because it means Connor is happy, and he wonders if Connor knows that. Probably. Probably he does. God damn him. 

“I also have a real cake prepared, but that’s for later because I don’t want you to feel sick. Oh, there are several gifts out there too, and I have some things planned for this evening—” 

There’s a top, a gauzy thing that opens up at the bottom to show Connor’s belly button and the mole next to it, and the bottoms are these lacy shorts with a bow, and—holy shit. “Connor,” Hank says, more than a bit strangled, “Uh, could you…explain what you’re wearing?”

Connor stops, and an incredibly devious smile spreads across his face. Oh, _fuck_ him, he’s been monitoring his heart rate this whole time. Of course he has. “I read that a common birthday gift for your boyfriend is to wear something nice for him. Isn’t this nice, Hank?” 

“Fuck you,” Hank mumbles, putting his face in his hands. “It’s morning, Connor.” 

“It certainly is.”

“Isn’t that shit supposed to be for nighttime? Like, not before work?”

“I didn’t read anything about a specific timeline,” Connor says, incredibly sweet, too sweet for how he still looks like the sexiest fucking supervillain. “And besides, I have a separate plan for the nighttime.”

“You’re going to murder me. I’m going to die and it’s going to be your fault.”

“Oh, Hank, that would be _incredibly_ counterproductive to my goals.” Connor smiles, faux-pleasant. “Your breakfast is going to get cold.”

Hank’s jaw drops, and he shifts uncomfortably under the covers. “You’re going to—but—”

“These pancakes taste best when freshly cooked.” Connor sets down the tray, just close enough to where he’s semi-erect to absolutely be intentional. “Eat up!” 

Hank almost wishes things were back like when Connor had no fucking idea what he was doing and was really shy about all this shit. Like, not really, but if it meant him not doing this, maybe.

The pancakes are delicious and he barely tastes them because he’s scarfing them down and Connor isn’t even reprimanding him about chewing his food, just watching him with that same pleasant smile and hooded eyes. When he finishes, Connor smiles more genuinely and holds up one finger as he takes the tray and walks out to the kitchen, then back into the room. 

“Dishes can wait,” he says dismissively, then crooks that same finger towards Hank. “To the edge of the bed, if you would?” 

Hank knows what’s coming, and he still inhales sharply as he complies. “Uh. Yeah. Yeah, definitely. And—uh, before I forget—thanks for breakfast. It was good.”

Connor’s smile gentles, and he leans forward to kiss Hank. “I’m glad. Happy birthday, Hank.” 

“Thank you, Con,” Hank breathes against Connor’s lips, and he might be way too horny right now for all that nothing has happened, but he’s not too horny to feel a sudden and familiar rush of warmth and affection for his boyfriend. Connor works so hard to do things to make him happy, to make him feel important and loved, and—Hank wonders sometimes still how Hank is enough, with his fumbling attempts at romance and the whole. Being Hank thing. But Connor tells him frequently he is enough, more than, and that he wouldn’t want anything other than what Hank has to give him, and that he loves him. 

He’s a lucky bastard, is what it comes down to in the end, he guesses.

Connor pulls back then slowly, slowly kneels, pulling Hank forward by his back, then looking up at him. “I’ve always thought it very convenient that you sleep with fewer layers than you wear outside,” he murmurs, and slowly reaches for the waistband of Hank’s boxers, toying with the elastic. “There is something to be said, of course, for the value of slowly unwrapping a gift. But I confess sometimes I just want to rip it open.”

Hank lifts his hips slightly to help Connor remove his boxes entirely, feeling the blush rise up his neck but powerless to stop it. “Gift? I thought it was my birthday.”

Connor’s lips quirk at the corner as he takes Hank’s cock into his hands, gazing at it with dark eyes. “Oh, it is.” He gives it a few experimental strokes, then moves forward to lick at the tip. Hank inhales and holds his breath; Connor grins at him, then takes him into his mouth.

Figuring out things that worked for both of them had been…difficult, at first. Connor was not made to have sex, and he wasn’t really even completely certain he could replicate human pleasure pathways. But they eventually found things that, with some adjustment, worked for him: the overload of information he gets from continuously having something in his mouth isn’t too dissimilar from pleasure, and he has increased sensitivity in his fingers. And when he starts to overload, he has easier access to his diagnostic panels. 

Another gigantic fuckin’ difference between last year’s birthday and this one: last year if you had told him he’d be getting his partner off by doing shit to his internal wiring, he’d have told you you were a crazy fucker. Part because he had never had a partner with wiring and would never have expected to. Part because he didn’t have a partner and didn’t think that would change.

Connor has changed a lot of things, really.

Connor’s eyes have fluttered shut, a light blue not unlike the color of his lingerie dotted on his cheeks, and he’s making little noises in his throat that always drive Hank fucking _mad_. The physical sensations—his synthetic spit, the slide of his tongue, the heat—those are already a lot to deal with, but Connor _likes_ doing this, is the other thing, and warmth curls in his gut just as much from seeing Connor blushing, his eyebrows creasing, from hearing him moan just from having Hank’s cock in his mouth as it does from the rest of it. He loves knowing that he can affect Connor in this way, make him stop thinking so hard for a little bit and just let himself be in the moment.

“Con,” he groans, his hips thrusting forward as Connor hums, opening his eyes to look at him again; they’re dazed and bright and Hank really wants to kiss him again. “Connor, babe, I want—come up here. I want to touch you. Please.”

Connor pulls off and licks his lips because he’s a little shit, and then he climbs onto Hank’s lap. Hank winds his hands into the hair at the nape of Connor’s neck and kisses him like he wanted, mouths open and sliding. He falls onto his back, Connor falling with him, and he moves to his neck, mouthing over the presently invisible lines of the diagnostic access panel. Connor shudders above him; he knows it’s not actually that sensitive, but it is a promise of what’s to come.

“Move back,” Connor breathes, “Onto the pillows, this can’t be comfortable,” and Hank does as he’s asked, flipping their positions when they’re both fully on the bed so he can look at Connor properly. Hank reaches down to run his hands through his hair. It’s awfully soft for a synthetic substance, and it curls when it’s not slicked back. Then he moves his hands to brush over Connor’s cheeks, over the blue of thirium brought closer to the surface, over his neck and his shoulders, over the gauzy material of his top and the bow of his underwear.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, low and hoarse. “God, you—did you know I love this color?”

Connor’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. “Of course I know.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Hank leans down to press chaste kisses to his collarbone, then his LED. “It reminds me of you being happy.”

“You make me happy,” Connor says with heartbreaking sincerity, and Hank averts his eyes, cheeks heating.

“Good. Right. Uh…yeah.” It’s not the best transition into Hank abruptly picking up Connor’s fingers and putting them into his mouth to suck on. Some might even say it’s a really fucking bad transition.

Connor, luckily, doesn’t say shit, because he’s too busy keening; his other hand clenches and his head throws back as his back arches up towards Hank. The finger thing doesn’t really do much for Hank directly, but the way Connor writhes absolutely does; he looks wrecked, LED spinning yellow in short bursts as his mind attempts to process the tactile and sensory data and fails. “Hank,” he moans, “Hank, _Hank, please,_ ” and heat settles further into Hank’s abdomen, shocks running through his legs. “Hank, come on!”

Hank reaches over to the nightstand for the lube, warming it in his hands out of habit before pulling down Connor’s panties and slathering the lube between Connor’s thighs. Some of it drips down to the underwear anyway, but that’s a problem for later. “You okay to open one of your panels?” he asks huskily, Connor’s hands now clenching at his sheets, and he nods hurriedly before opening one of the access panels in his neck. The most sensitive one, probably. Hank grins, then arranges them so he can thrust in between Connor’s thighs, with one hand on his hip and the other up at Connor’s neck.

Thirium is electrically conductive, and so while there isn’t all that much outside of tubing—just a bit here and there like a thin coating—it still always gives him a light shock whenever he first touches one of Connor’s wires. His hips jerk forward and he hisses at the feeling, starting a slow rhythm both with his hips and with his fingers, stroking along the wires in Connor’s neck.

Connor likes it when he takes two between his thumb and index finger and rubs them against one another, when he gets his fingers down to the first nub that makes up his artificial spinal cord and flicks at the connections there. He wails when Hank digs his entire hand in there and squeezes, tossing his head back and forth and nearly sobbing when that moves Hank’s hand around more. Hank could nearly come from that alone, from Connor’s watery eyes and his tiny hitching breaths, from the slide of his cock between Connor’s thighs and the curls lying haphazardly on Connor’s head. 

His orgasm ends up coming like this: he mouths at Connor’s neck, not in the access panel but close enough to it that Connor bites down on his lip anyway, and murmurs in a ragged voice, “Can I unplug that—”

“Yes,” he says immediately, “Yes, please, _Hank,_ ” and Hank briefly tugs at a small wire that they’ve established is not essential for functioning, moving it in and out of its port to the same rhythm with which he’s fucking Connor’s thighs. Then he moves his other hand to Connor’s mouth, and it falls open on some wordless silent scream, and he uses his fingers to press down firmly on his pressure plate.

His LED goes red; his body tenses all over, and with it, his legs. The space Hank is thrusting into becomes impossibly tighter and he groans, hips jerking one last time as he comes onto the sheets below them, pressed as close to Connor as he can manage and biting down on Connor’s shoulder.

Hank pants as he rides out the electricity radiating through his thighs. Connor’s LED is still circling red; from experience he knows his systems are recalibrating from the overload. Eventually Hank rolls off him, chin on Connor’s shoulder as he waits for his LED to go from yellow back to his favorite shade of blue.

When it does, he always shakes his head a little bit, like he’s shaking off something. It makes Hank smile, and he kisses Connor once on the lips, once on the cheek. “You good?” He always checks, too; the first time he had been terrified, but even now, there’s still a part of him that is worried about messing with something he doesn’t understand well enough to fix if he fucks up. Connor reassures him about that one unplugged wire, something about being able to wiggle his toes and soft reboots not impacting it; he reassures him about everything, tells him there’s no way he’d never not come back to Hank, especially from something as small as this. 

Hank does his best to believe him, especially when Connor is smiling at him like he is now, pleased and sated and with all the love in the world.

“I love you,” he says to Connor, because it’s true and because they have sort of a running tally of who says it first after they have sex and Connor is insistent on ‘winning’.

“Aw, damn,” Connor says, LED going yellow at the swear word as it does every time, but the smile doesn’t go away, and his eyes have a teasing twinkle to them. 

“What kind of response is that, you punk-ass nerd?” 

“The kind appropriate to your very temporary lead in our little game.” Connor gives him a short kiss. “Although not as appropriate, perhaps, as me telling you I love you too. Which I do.” 

“Good.” His LED is wonderfully blue, and his cheeks still have a light dusting of blue as well. Hank thinks briefly that even the sun-bright blue of the sky outside can’t hold a candle to how lovely Connor’s blue is. 

It’s not the first time he’s thought it, and not the first time he’s reprimanded himself for being the cheesiest fucking old man to ever live, now.

But Connor changed a lot of things. If one of those is him being the cheesiest fucking old man to ever live, and he still gets the rest of it, he doesn’t mind all that much. 

After, they’ll wash off and get dressed, and Connor will do the dishes while Hank looks over his presents and reprimands Connor for spending so much of his own salary on stuff for him, and then he’ll kiss him and thank him and Connor will tell him it was no problem. And then they’ll go to work, and Connor will be as pleased as fuckin’ punch when everybody except Reed and Fowler jumps out from behind their desks with long-suffering expressions on their face to say ‘surprise’ and ‘happy birthday’, and they’ll have cake while Collins whispers to Hank that Connor had been really insistent on the jump-surprise thing because he’d read that’s how to have a surprise party, and Hank will laugh because that’s a very Connor thing to do. And then after a day of work Connor will set out a picnic blanket next to the Chicken Feed and Hank will have hamburgers like he asked for, and it will be the most fucking ridiculous thing ever, and then a half hour later he’ll change his mind because it's definitely beat out by Connor insisting on slow dancing to music from Hank’s phone sticking out of his jacket pocket, still next to the Chicken Feed, and they’ll dance to the sound of jazz and Gary laughing hysterically at them. And they’ll get home, and Connor will make him wait outside their room while, as he figures out, he gets naked and puts a bow on himself, and Hank will laugh again and Connor will suck him off until he comes in his mouth and Connor will come from sucking Hank’s fingers, and Hank will fall asleep to lazy kisses and the blue of Connor’s LED in the darkness.

But for now, it’s just him and Connor laying there, smiling at each other like two idiots, which is probably appropriate because they are. Connor’s LED is blue, and he looks happy, at least half as much as Hank feels.

So here’s the difference between Hank’s birthday this year and his birthday last year, ultimately: he has Connor, and Connor loves him, and he loves Connor. Which is worth a million bad birthdays, really, just for this one, and he could have trillions of bad birthdays and never be able to make up for the knowledge that he gets the rest of his birthdays with Connor, too. 

But he doesn’t need to make up for it. It’s just—a gift, he supposes, a gift wrapped up in the world’s most beautiful blue. 

(Cheesy. Whatever. It’s true.)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading, as always! my tumblr doesn't have much in the way of dbh content, but if you wanna send a message of some kind, you can find me at [anuninterestingperson](http://anuninterestingperson.tumblr.com)! i'm also on twitter at [@boringbibs](https://twitter.com/boringbibs).
> 
> like 2000 words into a wireplay fic i just sat there thinking blankly 'i have no fucking idea how to write wireplay'. lord i haven't written much smut at all, really. i pressed on bravely for hank's sake. yw hank. or like, hopefully you're welcome hank, not in the 'i think this is great' sense but in like the 'two cakes' sense. hopefully that's a good thing and doesn't give this hypothetical hank indigestion is what i'm saying
> 
> i don't know what i'm saying actually i'm really fuckin tired. tl;dr "Here This Is, I Guess"


End file.
